


Things left unsaid

by okeydokey (LilMissNerdfighter)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: John is alone again, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock is still not 'alive', attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 19:03:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilMissNerdfighter/pseuds/okeydokey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been three years since The Reichenbach Fall, and John decides to write Sherlock a note of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things left unsaid

~~Dear Sherlock,~~  
To Sherlock,  
To my dear Sherlock,  
Sherlock,  
It's been three years now exactly, since you fell and I wanted to let you know that ~~not an hour not a day goes by when I don't think about you when I don't miss you~~ everyone knows the truth. Mycroft helped me clear your name and after Greg (and the rest of the Yard) went through your cases, they found that you were right. That you were always right. Obviously. I knew that already, you never lied to me. Except on the roof. You told me that you were a fake, but you can't have expected me to accept that. I ~~know~~ knew you, Sherlock. You were irritating and unpleasant and sometimes I hated you a little bit. Not for very long, but I thought you should know. After all, there's no reason for me to lie, is there?  
Mrs Hudson has got a boyfriend- sorry; Brian plays 'table tennis' with her. I think you'd have liked him; he seems to really care about her. He's good for her, and he makes her laugh. I don't see her very much anymore ~~I couldn't live in 221b anymore, it hurt too much~~ I moved out of 221b a while ago ~~there were too many memories~~. Still, I still pop in for a cup of tea and biscuit sometimes. She seems happy enough ~~except when she thinks I can’t see and she looks at me as if she knows that I still don't know what to do with myself~~ and she has Brian.  
Oh, and Mycroft has been acting a bit odd. I think maybe he's been seeing someone too. Don't tell him I said so, but I think Greg likes him ~~oh fuck this, what is the point? You can’t tell him. You're not coming back and I miss you, you idiot~~ it's a little weird, but if it makes them happy, then who am I to judge? Who'd have guessed- your brother and the police inspector?  
Molly has a new job, the last I heard she was bossing people around somewhere in Oxford. She calls sometimes, she sounds happy and really passionate about her job. Although I'm not entirely sure what it is.  
Oh, and Anderson got the sack and Donovan has been demoted. I thought you'd like to know ~~-after all they were in some ways responsible. I suppose we can't blame them, as you said they are a bit dim. Doesn't mean I have to forgive them though, does it?~~  
Irene showed up about six months ago. Apparently you helped her cheat death. Mycroft did say that you'd be the only person smart enough to be able to help her. Or words to that effect. She's still convinced that I'm in love with you ~~and she's still right~~ , some people never change. I was so angry when she turned up on my doorstep, looking the same as ever and as if she had every right to be there. It took me a while to calm down, but I did, and we meet up sometimes. Y'know tea and gossip. Not that I really have much to talk about, but it's nice to pretend anyway. ~~The thing is, Sherlock, why does she get to live and you don't? How is that fair? How dare she? Sometimes I get so mad. And then other times, I just~~

 _Everyone seems happy enough, their lives all turned out okay. Which is great. Really, I am so pleased for them! Who’d have guessed that so much could change in three years?_  
And I suppose that just leaves me. There's not much to say really. I saw Ella, my therapist, a few times and she told me that I needed to move on. ~~Move on! As if there's any possible way to move on, to forget you.~~ So, I left 221b ~~I've already told you that, haven't I? Sorry~~ and I'm here now. A crappy room in the middle of nowhere. Can't afford London on an Army Pension. I'm back where I started, in some ways ~~except I'm more alone than ever~~. Harry kicked her drinking habit for a little while, so I visited her for a bit. She moved to Scotland! She had a really lovely place for a while, a new girlfriend and everything! I don't know what's happened to her now; both of them have kind of dropped off the radar. Last I heard she was back on the bottle. Oh well, nothing can last forever.  
Sorry, I got side-tracked, didn't I? I was talking about my life now. I went out with this really great girl for a while, Mary, a friend of Mike's. It didn't work out, we wanted different things ~~she wanted a boyfriend without a limp, who wanted her and I wanted you, but what can you do?~~ So, I'm alone again.  
My last job at the local surgery ended as well. There's not much else going round here, job wise.  
It doesn't matter anyway. Not anymore.

 _You see Sherlock, this is my note. It's an actual note, not a phone call like yours- sorry. I have tried literally everything to make my life better, but I can't. You gave me a reason to get up in the morning, and now... Now there is nothing. I'm about to be evicted and I haven't got any friends or a job. I lost all that when you fell. It's so stupid; I can't even bring myself to write it- what happened to you. Even now._  
I have so many regrets, Sherlock. I should've told you that I ~~loved~~ love you. There I said it. Are you happy now? I waited for so long, and I can't do this anymore.  
So, I'm writing this note to the one person who gave me reason to live. You.

 _Sometimes I get so angry, how dare you leave me? And then I realise that you're not coming back, that it was your choice to leave and you took it. Your choice. I should respect the wishes of the fallen, right?_  
And so I hope you respect my choice now. My choice to end this. Because I can't do it anymore.  
Just know that I loved you until the end.  
Goodbye, Sherlock.  
John finished writing looking down at his letter. He didn't sign it, he didn't need to. His gun was resting on the table just by his right hand. John smiled slightly at the memory of Sherlock ranting about left handed men being shot on the right side of their head. Even moments before death, Sherlock had not deserted him. Focusing on the memory of his best friend, John closed his eyes and pressed the gun to his temple.  
There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs, voices and the smell of coffee. John's hand didn't shake.  
Eyes still shut, he braced himself and counted down. 3,2,1-  
The gun fired, the bullet hitting the wall, missing John completely. Someone was wrestling the gun off him, all coat, coffee and ginger curls.  
'John. Let go.'  
John struggled. Wasn’t he allowed to do one thing without someone interfering?  
'John, please.'  
That voice. He _had_ died. He had to have died, to be able to hear that voice. John sighed in relief. There was an afterlife. Whatever death threw at him, he would deal with it. Sherlock was here- a skinnier, ginger version- but here all the same. That was all he needed to know. He released the gun, looking up into Sherlock's blue eyes.  
'Hi,' John murmured, 'I’m glad this wasn't all for nothing.'  
'What?' Sherlock looked at him in confusion. Death had apparently taken some of his intelligence.  
'I’m glad that I didn't die for nothing. You're here and so it makes it all worthwhile.' John explained, pulling an uncharacteristically speechless Sherlock into a tight hug.  
'John-'  
'There was something I wanted to tell you.’ John said, releasing Sherlock slightly, so he could see his expression. 'I was going to tell you, before you died. But I didn't get the time.'  
'John, you-'  
'I love you, Sherlock Holmes. And I'm sorry that I waited so long to tell you.' John tried to enunciate- and to not mumble- but his confession came out in a jumble of letters and he wasn't sure Sherlock understood. That was the first time in what felt like forever that he'd had to worry about that.  
'John, listen to me. You are not actually dead. Neither of us are-' protested Sherlock, not making any effort to try and escape John’s arms.  
'Don't be ridiculous. You didn't survive the fall- no one could’ve. And I didn't survive being shot. We're dead. You've had three years longer than I have to adjust- and yet I've seemed to have grasped the concept quicker than you. That’s a first.' John told him thoughtfully, adding quietly, ‘I suppose I’ve not been alive for a long while, really.’

‘John…’ Sherlock sighed, actually hugging him, removing any shadow of doubt that remained. Sherlock- when he was alive- would never have hugged John. Or anyone- other than Mrs Hudson, maybe.

‘Sherlock.’ John smiled properly for the first time in years, realising that this really was Sherlock here, with him.

‘John, love. You’re not dead. Nothing has changed. The bullet missed you completely- it’s embedded in the wall over there. Not such a good shot after all,’ he joked. John followed his gaze, seeing the hole in the wall, which seemed to confirm Sherlock’s story.

‘But, you-‘

‘I’m not dead either. I-I faked my death. I survived the jump. I’ve been working undercover for the past three years, taking down Moriarty’s web.’ Sherlock explained, not making eye contact, staring resolutely at the table behind John. At the note.

‘You’re still alive?’ John asked his eyebrows furrowed in disbelief.

‘Yes.’

‘You left me for three years? I thought you were _dead_ , Sherlock. I was going to- I wanted to- Oh God!’ John was gradually becoming hysterical. He threw his hands in his air, and was beginning to shake. He made as if to punch Sherlock, but restrained himself at the last moment. He finally settled on sitting with his head in his hands, murmuring quietly under his breath.

Shock- I need a blanket, thought Sherlock, thinking back to the many times where either Greg or a medical professional had thrown a garish blanket over his shoulders. Seeing the duvet with hospital corners on the bed, Sherlock grabbed it and tried his best to cover John with it. It ended with a very confused John staring Sherlock as he wrestled with it on the floor. Unable to help himself John began to laugh, hesitantly and then properly, for the first time in months. Sherlock stopped struggling with the duvet quite so violently as he heard the sound he had missed so much.

‘Sherlock. God, Sherlock. You complete and utter moron!’ John spluttered, pressing his lips together to try and contain his giggles. Sherlock stared at him in confusion before smiling hopefully. John stopped chuckling, raising one eyebrow at the dead-man-walking sitting on the floor in front of him, although the smile still remained. John slid off his chair, joining his friend, allowing Sherlock to share the make-shift shock blanket with him.

All John’s anger had vanished, almost as if it had never existed. The relief had taken over- Sherlock was _here_. The man he had mourned and spent the last three years half dead for. He knew that at some point his rage would return- after all, Sherlock had faked his death and forced him to believe that he had spent his final moments doubting himself- but for now he felt oddly peaceful. John pinched himself and then poked Sherlock’s chest, checking that he was solid. It wouldn’t have been the first time that John had dreamt of a reunion, only to wake or for John to reach for him and his hand to pass right through him.

Confident that Sherlock wasn’t going to disappear, and that he wasn’t going to discover that he was alone again, John rested his head on his best friend’s shoulder. Sherlock stiffened slightly at the contact, before relaxing. This was _John_ , here and alive and still, after all this time, always trusting him. Sherlock looped an arm round John’s shoulders, making sure that the duvet still covered them, enveloping them in the blanket fort. He opened his mouth to offer John some form of apology, but instead how he had spent the past three years and everything he had wanted to tell John came spilling out of his mouth.

If he was being honest- something he had tried to prevent- he had missed John almost more than the Work. Which wasn’t something he was in a hurry to admit. He had buried his homesickness- Johnsickness?- as he had taken down Moriarty’s web, but when it was dismantled, there was nothing left. Everyone he knew and everyone he had ever considered… interesting, not dull, a friend was gone. He had gone to Molly first, to ask her to help him speak to John. She had been angry, more so than he could ever have imagined. It didn’t fit her behavioural pattern. So, he had moved onto Lestrade, who had seemed more tired than angry. He had studied Sherlock for a moment and then called for a taxi for Sherlock, to take him to 221B. Lestrade had watched him as he had left, a contemplative expression gracing his face, telling him that he could only come back to the Yard when he had spoken to Mrs Hudson and John. He hadn’t even mentioned the trouble Sherlock had obviously caused, or his relationship with his brother, they had apparently been insignificant. Sherlock was inclined to agree. Still, he had not reacted as expected. That too had been irrelevant at the time. Sherlock hadn’t needed to be told twice, and had paid the taxi double to take an obscure short cut. 

Mrs Hudson had greeted him at the door, bursting into tears and pulling him into a tight hug. The tears had lasted until he had been dragged into her flat and had demonstrated his ability to make cups of tea and navigate her cupboards. Then she had started with the questions: who had known, how long John had known and whether they were still together.

Sherlock told John honestly that he hadn’t tried to convince Mrs Hudson that he didn’t want a relationship with John, and that the cups of badly brewed tea had grown cold as Mrs Hudson had bombarded him. John grinned at Sherlock’s retelling of Mrs Hudson forcing him to eat shortbread biscuits and had pressed a small kiss on Sherlock’s jaw when he had recounted how insistent Mrs Hudson was that John would take him back. It didn’t matter to her that they had never said that they were together, she had assumed they were. Here Sherlock had muttered something hurriedly, burying his face in John’s shoulder. John blinked a few times, before running a hand through Sherlock’s hair and waiting for him to continue.

It took him a minute or two to start again, and the two of them sat in a companionable silence, Sherlock breathing in John, and John stroking his hair. When he spoke again, he skipped the train journey (other than commenting on the conductor’s incompetence) and missed out how exactly he had found John’s address (although John suspected Mycroft had something to do with it). He told him of running up the stairs and kicking open the door and seeing the gun and his heart pounding. Sherlock sped through confessions of feeling genuinely terrified for the first time in three years, and barely paused for breath as he admitted that he had thought he had lost him. The last part was almost inaudible, and if John hadn’t been attuned into Sherlock’s voice, he would have missed it completely.

‘And I love you, John. The thought of you dead nearly killed me.’

That was when John knew.

It didn’t matter the hell he had gone through. Sherlock was sorry and he was here and although both of them had done things they regretted, that didn’t matter. They had both changed, mostly for the better but a little for the worse, and they were not the same people who had met at a morgue nearly five years ago. That didn’t matter either. They were here and safe and mostly uninjured.

John kissed Sherlock’s lips, trying to tell him all the things he could never say. He hoped Sherlock understood. He thought he did. His eyes were stupidly blue and honest and he was grinning when he pulled back, the way the other Sherlock hardly ever had.

‘Nice hair!’ John teased, as Sherlock rolled his eyes before kissing him to shut him up.

They were home now. That was what really mattered.

So, when John awoke the next morning from a sleep filled with mostly happy dreams and saw Sherlock clutching his note, hands shaking, he didn’t have any qualms about reaching over and ripping it in two.

He hadn’t needed that goodbye after all.


End file.
